In The Streets of Paris
by AmicableAlien
Summary: Anouk Rocher is eighteen years old when she leaves her sleepy home by the Tannes river. Finally, the north wind pulls her to Paris where a chance meeting with an old friend could change her life forever, if only she has the courage.
1. Chapter 1

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I do not own either the film _Chocolat_ or the book and I can claim copyright on neither.

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**~*~*~*~**

**In The Streets of Paris**

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_Tradition simply means that we need to end what began well and continue what is worth continuing._

---Jose Bergamin

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It happened when she was eighteen.

'It' really shouldn't have happened at all. After, she was the one in her family who scorned the old traditions. She was the one who preferred to stay at home, a stick-in-the-glorious-mud in the clay of Lansquenet-sous-Tannes. It was her mother who listened to the old stories and followed them blindly.

Anouk Rocher prided herself on being educated. She had even gone on from the _college_ to the _lycée _at Tartines-sur-Tannes twenty miles away. The degree declaring that Anouk Rocher had successfully completed the Baccalaureate was stowed away in Vianne's box of treasures upstairs in her old play-area. It jostled for space along with the medal she received for culinary arts in the _école élémentaire_, the tiny pet rock she had created one year as Maman's thirty-fifth birthday present and her old red cloak. A red cloak Anouk had put away gratefully at the tender age of six years old and vowed fervently never to see again. She was a modern, confident young woman. She had not asked for the story of her grandparents in years.

If her mother mourned Anouk's firm slam shut on the door to her past, she never showed it. Instead, she merely sighed quietly and went on mixing another bowl of ganache for Joséphine's favourite Cointreau Roses.

On the morning of her eighteenth birthday, Anouk began the day as she always did these lazy days since the end of school. Swinging her legs nonchalantly, she perched on the edge of her favourite stool, plopped her chin into the cradle of her connected hands and stared across at her mother as she created the daily batch of _chocolat chaud_ for the Comte.

"It's my birthday today."

"Yes, _cherie,_ it is."

"Will you be…"

"The cake? Of course."

"With…"

"Strawberries, as always, _petite_."

The edge of Anouk's mouth turned down for the first time in eighteen years at the mention of her favourite food. Self-consciously, she began to fidget with the tiny carvings of elves and gondolas and kangaroos along her chair. "Will Roux be there do you think?"

"Ah, Roux." Vianne paused and lifted her hands and shoulders in a Gallic shrug. "Who knows, _petite_?"

"He promised. And the train from Marseille comes in at noon." She traced the pattern of a kangaroo Roux had sworn was Pantoufle. "Besides, I need him to look at my stool. He must have carved it badly. It squeaks."

Vianne laughed. "The things Roux creates all do that." She gave the door of the shop an affectionate glance. Anouk watched her curiously.

"Do you miss him, Maman?"

Vianne pursed her lips. "Miss him? Hmm… Perhaps. In winter. In summer, when the fields are as green as the river. And during Lent."

"Maman?"

"Yes?"

"Does Roux like chocolate cake? The rich kind you make, with almonds?"

"He says so anyway."

Anouk mumbled in agreement. Slowly, her eyes drifted down to the bowl of swirling brown decadence, turning expertly in her mother's hands. She pursed her lips. Then, with a decisive tug on the tie-dyed smock Roux had brought her that Christmas from Paris, she slipped off the stool.

"Maman?" An inquiring look thrown at her from a pair of bird-like eyes. "I think I'll have a chocolate cake this year."

The wooden spoon froze in motion.

"Since Roux likes it." Anouk added hurriedly. "He is coming a long way and I know strawberries aren't his favourite."

Vianne opened her mouth as if to say something. Then a tiny flame flickered in her dark eyes. Nodding in reply, she bent her head once more to the Comte's _chocolat_ _chaud_.

Unnoticed by the both women, a tiny breeze stirred a curl that hung over Vianne's forehead.

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If you enjoy it, please review! I won't know to continue or not if you don't!


	2. Chapter 2

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I do not own the copyright to either the book or the film of _Chocolat_. I own nothing. Only an old banjaxed computer. And even that belongs to my mother really.

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**~*~*~*~**

**In The Streets of Paris**

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**

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**

The party was a success. Everyone agreed this was so.

Roux was two hours late but made up for his folly by bringing the Brothers Garaud with him. The Brothers, two tiny gnomes of muscle and bone, were from Poland, having arrived in Marseilles during the last War and subsisting there ever since. The music that span from their violins and guitars was like angel's hair sugar; light and sweet but with an extra kick, a dash of _Biala Dama_, that sent guests swirling onto the hastily constructed dance patch. The Gavotte was danced in three different versions. There was Monsieur Vaudin, the village postman, who arrived dressed in his traditional clown's outfit as he had every birthday since she was eight years old. There was his plump wife, Claudette; happy and smiling from years of feasting on her mother's tiny lemon meringue chocolates and the seven little Vaudins each born from unrefined cacao nips. There was Mademoiselle Regler; the grey schoolmistress, waltzing energetically with Pere Henri, who was attempting a jazz square.

The Comte was ensconced with Caroline in the shade of the sprouting apple tree, eagerly telling anyone who would listen of Luc Clairmont's success in Paris galleries, in London art-houses, in every country in Europe. His wife of ten years sat by, smiling gently at his enthusiasm. She had long since ceased to resist Paul's pride in his adopted son. Joséphine floated around their guests, old and young, offering plates of Vianne's sugar-dressed treasures. The tiny garden over-spilled with well-wishers of her own age. Ten girls had undertaken the fifteen-mile bus journey and five-mile trek from Tartines-sur-Tannes to wish their old school friend a happy coming of age. The local children, now indefatigable young adults, swarmed around Anouk, recalling terrible stories from their shared childhood. Boxes and parcels wrapped in bright American style paper were pressed into her hands. The gifts, ranging from tiny velvet boxes to a new apple tree, were judiciously passed on to a smiling Vianne or silent Roux. They stood huddled in the shade of the doorway, a mountain of good wishes.

And yet Anouk was not satisfied.

She smiled at the clumsy flirting of Jean Marceau. She laughed as Mademoiselle Regler recalled tipsily the time she had hidden beneath a school desk in hopes of avoiding a spelling test. She danced every dance, with Roux, with Monsieur Blerot and his little dog and with Bertrand who persisted in proposing to her until she had to stand on his toes. She exclaimed over gifts and protested over and over again that truly, _truly_ they had been too kind, she did not deserve this…

But.

But.

She was not satisfied.

It was not until she saw her glorious birthday cake, three layers relaxing luxuriantly into a bath of whipped chocolate spread, the Madeira spiked with almonds and cocoa and spread with a silken coat of marbled _ganache_ and finally, the tiny chocolate pearls, perfect as raindrops, that she understood what was missing. What had been cut away.

The party swished forward, an amalgamation of summer fabrics and cries of welcome.

"Madame! What a beautiful cake!"

"It must have taken you so long, Vianne."

"Oh, Joséphine helped me. She had a lovely light touch with the _ganache_…"

"Maman, I want…"

"Hush, Benoit, you must not push yourself forward so."

Pere Henri stuck out a finger, swept up a globe of icing. He sighed. His eyes closed. The Comte nodded in understanding, his smile sympathetic.

"Martinique." He said simply, recalling the sunburst days of his honeymoon when everything was possible.

"Annecy." The priest replied, still soaking in the memories of his childhood in the Rhone-Alpes, where snow was angel feathers dropped by God and there was _chocolat chaud_ every evening.

A smile twisted the corner of Roux's mouth even as a flicker of dappled green and pink caught on the corner of his eye. The birthday girl was standing fives paces away from everyone else; a tight pinched look on her strong young face. One strand of peat brown hair was caught between her teeth and she was chewing viciously, dark eyes fixed on the cake.

He lifted the patterned china, the birthday offering. "Anouk! Time for cake!"

The girl started as if in a dream. With stiff jerky steps, Anouk Rocker walked towards her birthday cake. Every pace felt like a lifetime, the packed soil burning through her light summer sandals. There was a churning in her stomach. Her pulse felt like a hammer beating at her throat.

A cool north breeze stirred the hairs on the back of her neck.

The chocolate squished against her fingers as she lifted it from the china, the moist Madeira caving in. She could feel the molten silk of the _ganache_ as the three layers rubbed against each other. Almonds hung on the air.

She took one bite.

And understood everything.

By dawn Anouk Rocher was gone from Lansquenet-sous-Tannes, her old red cloak thrown over her shoulders.

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**A/N: **_Don't forget to review! I'd really like to know what you think!_

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	3. Chapter 3

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I do not own _Chocolat_, book or film.

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**~*~*~*~**

**In The Streets of Paris**

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For three and a half years she never had a place to call home for more than nine months.

The first town she visited was by the river, another river this time. The Loire, the greatest river in all France. Madame Regler had taught them that it was six hundred and twenty-nine miles long, a hundred times longer than Mount Everest was high. She had taught them that five great cities nestled on its banks and that the chateaux that surrounded it on all sides were among the greatest works of art in the entire world.

But Anouk never realised quite how green the fields along the Loire basin could be or how the streets could be so beguilingly cobbled. She never learnt in that high-walled classroom that there could be Roman ruins in the hills above the commune of St. Nicolas or an aqueduct that cut across the dip between the Cézannes mountains.

And one Sunday evening, as she sat, panting, at the top of the Mont Gérard, squinting as the setting sun threw up a canvas of fire onto the darkening sky, she realised that no photograph in a schoolbook could ever compare to seeing something with naked eyes.

She fell in love with the town and lived there for nine months. It was, she realised later, that longest she would ever spend in a single place. She wondered if her grandmother had been perversely kind to her the first time, easing her into the nomadic life of the people of the North Wind. For when the wind began to blow, just on the cusp of autumn, it was gentle, like her mother reminding her to get up and go to school. It whistled through the blue-painted shutter and pulled at her hair, dragging the brown curls into an untameable mop. Bit by bit, she tried to ignore it, concentrating on the violet flavour liquors for Pére Richard, on the exquisite chocolate snakes for the children who crowded around her counter after every school day. She would watch the smoky yellow honey of the region stretch down from the tin into her bowl of _roses d'or_ and grit her teeth against the insistent push of cold against her lower back. After breaking once to the temptation, she had no intention of breaking again and living her life to please some contrary spirit.

She gave in eventually. It took two weeks of violent storms from the mountains and the near-death experience of Madame Bricolot to persuade her but eventually Anouk gave in. It was a Sunday.

The next day _La Chocolaterie Maya_ was boarded shut. The little knowledge the villagers had was that a young woman in a red cloak was seen hurrying over the pass early that morning by Monsieur Legrande. She had been heading in the direction of the coast.

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Carcassonne, her next home, was no St. Nicolas. The ancient walled town with the double ring fortifications and endless winding streets fascinated and intimidated Anouk at first, so much so she was half afraid to put a toe outside the door of her shoebox sized shop beneath the shadow of the west wall. However, going outside was never really necessary. She learned that within the first three days. Instead the people of Carcassonne came to her. At first it was just the local wives, relieved to finally have somewhere peaceful to chat and gossip into a pair of serene ears. Then it was Mademoiselle Brigitte, who, at seventy, was the leader of society in the Rue de la Paix. Then her cohorts. Then the children, slowly at first, edging in past the glass doors on a dare, their friends egging them on from behind the postman's parked bicycle. Then everyday, coming in from all four corners of the city. The tiny ones, the _petits_, toddling on fat little legs from the _école_ _maternelle_. The rangy ten-year-olds who vied for her attention and the special chocolate ducks. Then their brothers and sisters, chattering flirting, all Anouk's own age and content to include her in their schemes. Soon _La Chocolaterie Maya_ was famous even in the grand town houses for the aristos on the hill. And Anouk was feted privately as the best thing to come into the Western Quarter for years.

It was the people that made Anouk fall in love with Carcassonne. They were warm and generous, sometimes dropping little gifts off to her as they passed, payment, as they saw it, for the mountains of cocoa they munched through while explaining their problems to her listening eyes and ears. Nothing was hidden behind closed doors with them, nothing shrouded with curtains. It wasn't long before Anouk was being given a daily report on Monsieur Charles' bunions, on little Mathilde's problems with the rudiments of algebra and Chloe's endless list of unfaithful, crude and boorish boyfriends. Madame Jorand freely whispered to the young girl of her husband's problems with 'playing his flute' and shy Michel mortified himself into confiding the agonies of his secret adoration of Jocelyn, the baker's youngest daughter.

Anouk sometimes felt like she was a magnet in the centre of a maelstrom: there was no knowing what strange metal might suddenly fly out and be drawn to her little shop. It was like that when Maurice stumbled into the shop one rainy day in February covered in circus-red paint.

She had been putting the fresh delivery of crushed violet flowers away in the back of the shop when the old-fashioned bell had tinkled. Shrugging her shoulders at the old photograph of her mother, she pushed the brass tins back to the wall of the shelf. "Just a minute!"

There was a creak of the old floorboards. Anouk winced and made a mental note to have Jerome the carpenter take a look at them before the weekend. An embarrassed cough sounded out from the shop. "Eh… Mademoiselle... I… eh… I think you would not like me to stay long."

Rolling her eyes at the roundabout method of telling her to hurry up, Anouk shoved the final tin in place and wiped her dusty hands surreptitiously on the back of her new-styled skirt. Pasting on a smile, she took the stairs two at a time. "Bonjour M'sieu…" She stopped dead. "_Sacré milles tonneres_!"

The customer shuffled his feet and tried in vain to prevent any more paint from dripping onto the floor. A blush highlighted his sallow cheeks. "_Milles pardons_, mademoiselle, truly…" He was hunching up into himself in a ridiculous attempt to make himself as small as possible under the stare of the pretty chocolatier. "I… I seem to have fallen into a little accident."

Anouk blinked at him. Red paint flattened down the crown of his head and splashed a sticky cape across his shoulders and down his back, almost obliterating the cheerful green pattern of his shirt. "It would appear so, monsieur." She agreed in a shaking voice.

If anything, his blush increased. "Jules… I mean, my brother Monsieur Jorand, he said that you would be able to help me." Green eyes, the colour of sun on the sea avoided her gaze.

Then Anouk did something neither of them expected. She laughed.

It rocketed out of her like a bullfrog's croak, it echoed through the shop like cymbals. For a moment, Maurice stood there, one curl of dark hair falling between two perplexed brows, staring at the hysterical girl as she howled with laughter because of a completely unremarkable sentence. Then the same realisation boomed through him until all he could do was laugh along with her. His own quiet chuckles, rich as resin and _ganache,_ mingled with hers until the shop filled with the sound of their laughter.

Slowly, they calmed, the howls soothing into smiles. Anouk tucked a curl behind her ear. "I am Anouk Rocher."

"I know. I'm Maurice."

"I know. Well… I mean, I guessed." A dimple peeped out. "Madame Jorand speaks of nothing but you." She did not repeat what Madame had actually said or implied.

"Jules sings your praises every day. You were the one who…" He trailed off into silence, the realisation that his brother's private problems were not to best topic of conversation crashing down on top of him.

Anouk was tempted to put the words into his mouth but plumped for discretion than valour. "And, you, monsieur, built a barn in a week."

He shuffled his feet. "It was two." He objected.

She smiled.

"Well, three really."

The smile widened.

"All right, four. Four weeks."

"That's still very impressive."

"Hildegrade prefers to exaggerate." He muttered to the floor.

"Madame Jorand enjoys a good story." Anouk agreed diplomatically. A flash of amusement changed his eyes from sea green to emerald. She blushed before getting down to business. "May I ask how I can help you?"

He started. "Oh! Eh… my shirt, mademoiselle. Jules thr- Jules dropped his paint and some of it..." He coughed. "Splashed."

"I think I have a clean shirt in the back. My uncle's." She added quickly. "He lent it to me before I left home. It should fit you. He was wide across the shoulders, as you are."

Maurice ducked his dark head. "_Merci_, Mademoiselle Rocher." He politely ignored the returning heat scalding across her cheeks.

She jerked a thumb backwards; an American gesture she'd learned from film-obsessed Chloe. "Would you prefer… Of course you would." She muttered before disappearing into the back. Minutes later, she was back. The shirt in her hands was brown with tiny white dragonflies scattered across the cotton. He gave it a vaguely fearful gaze.

She held it out. "Monsieur?"

Taking it, he glanced around self-consciously before the green eyes came back sheepishly to Anouk. "_Pardon_, Mademoiselle Rocher…"

"Oh! Oh yes, of course." She spun around. Distantly, she knew she was laughing at the country-bred manners of the younger Jorand, at how out-of-place he seemed compared to urbanity of his brother. The buttons popped gently behind her. She wondered dimly if he was handsome without his shirt. Perhaps he would be like Charles Bronson or Alain Delon.

Another cough signalled his finish. She turned around, accepted the stained shirt. For a moment they stood staring at each other. His hair was dark with tiny golden highlights, she saw now. Like cacao mixed with honey from the Dordogne.

"Thank you again, Mademoiselle." Maurice Jorand mumbled.

Then he bolted.

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"Just a minute!"

"Yes, Mademoiselle Rocher."

Anouk blinked at the familiar voice. Unconsciously, her hands went down to smooth out her skirt. Glancing at the mirror in the corner, she caught her mother's celluloid eyes. "He has returned, Maman." She muttered. "I wonder did Hildegrade bully him into it?"

He was staring at the casket of _roses d'or_ when she came up to the floor of the shop. Gently, she cleared her throat.

He leapt up guiltily, his hands flying towards his pockets. There was a small brown paper bag by his foot. "Mademoiselle!"

She forced a smile, as if he hadn't run from her like a rabbit from a starving wolf yesterday. "Would you like some of the _roses_ _d'or_?" Her voice even sounded pleasantly serene.

"No, Mademoiselle, I just…" He glanced around frantically. Found the bag. Thrust it to her. "Your shirt! I just… brought it back. Yes!"

Carefully, with the tips of her fingers, Anouk took the wrapped parcel from him. The knot was tight, a butchers knot, designed to cut the meat into segments. She didn't bother to fumble with it knowing there wasn't a hope of undoing it without a sharp knife. Placing it precisely on the counter, she folded her hands in her lap. "Thank you m'sieur."

He swallowed. Green eyes darted to the side. Suddenly the green mosaic along the display cabinet seemed fascinating. "Mademoiselle Rocher." He began formally.

"Yes, M'sieur Jorand?"

"I… I have a…" _How do the Americans put it?_ "I have a favour to ask of you."

"Of course, M'sieur." Big brown eyes, cool as glass. He swallowed again. His heart was hammering in his throat.

"Mademoiselle, I was wondering if perhaps it is not too much trouble and you are not inconvenienced in any way you might consider maybe… that we may go on a date?"

Her jaw dropped. She collected herself. "A date?" The word sounded strange, very American.

He seemed to gain confidence before her eyes. "Yes, Mademoiselle. There is a dance in the _Chateau Gris_ this Friday night. I..." He drew in a breath. "I would be honoured to escort you." He finished in old-fashioned formality.

"I…" All she could think of was her new green dress. It would be perfect for a dance at the _Chateau Gris_. "I would be honoured to accept, M'sieur."

A boyish grin broke over his face, like an Easter egg cracking opening to reveal rich treats. The curl over his forehead seemed to bounce with satisfaction. "Good… Well… Good. Good." He opened his hands and shook his head, still grinning widely. "I… Good."

She giggled, biting her lip in an effort not to laugh. "Until Friday night, M'sieur."

"I… Yes! Friday." Impulsively, he strode across and pecked her lips. The unexpected action sent a cold wash of surprise over her, shocking her out of her complacency. It was then she realised that one curve of his smile went up a little higher than the other. It was quite attractive really.

He was just about to leave when she spoke out. "Maurice?"

He turned back. "Yes Made… I mean, Anouk."

"The paint, that morning."

"Yes." Did he blush a little at the mention of that? "Ah. Eh. The paint."

"Was that paint dropped or did Monsieur Jorand throw it?"

Another hint of that disturbing smile. The green eyes gleamed. "What do you think?"

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"He is good, eh?"

"Yes, Madame Jorand. He is very good."

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**A/N** - Please don't forget to review, I'd love to know what you think!


	4. Chapter 4

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I do not own or have copyright over _Chocolat_, book or film.

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**~*~*~*~**

**In The Streets of Paris**

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Anouk had never expected love would feel like this.

Every day she spent with Maurice was wonderful to the nineteen-year-old. Every hour was well spent if only it was spent in his company. She loved to walk with him throughout the walled streets of Carcassonne, her arm linked in his, listening to his stories of life growing up in the family vineyard outside the city. She would spend hours in the cool, underground kitchen of her tiny shop, patiently showing him the proper way to place kisses of white chocolate onto the curves of the Easter eggs. Once he brought her out of the city in the middle of the night and led her up the mountain to the north, just in time to see the sun rise, the rays spilling like honey, like molten gold over the city walls, gilding the stone to an incredible colour. Then he kissed her, not just once but many times, until she was breathless and laughing with the sheer joy of it.

Kisses, Anouk discovered, were almost better than chocolate.

Even the customers at _La Chocolaterie Maya_ began to notice the changes in the young girl. Mademoiselle Brigitte gave her gracious archaic smile as she heard Anouk singing behind the counter. Chloe refused to leave until she had every detail down, her bouffant hair bristling with excitement. Michel, the sudden appearance of a suitor for his confessor provoking a sense of protectiveness in his breast, wondered aloud if Maurice's intentions were honourable. Even little Mathilde banged on the counter with one grubby fist and demanded of her Maman why 'Nook' was much more smiley now.

Madame Jorand, however, took the most pragmatic view of the affair. Every so often, she would raise her head from the latest bushel of gossip and follow Anouk around the shop with her eyes. When the brown-eyed gaze would meet hers, she would merely grunt and demand. "He is good, yes?"

"Yes, Madame, he is very good."

* * *

"Anouk, come, look!"

Shoving her hands into the pockets, she hurried over to him. The sea wind cut into her cheeks, making her bury as much of her face as she could into the muddled, crooked scarf Chloe had presented to her last week. But still she was able to smile when she saw him, standing on the edge of the pier, his face out-thrust against the harsh wind. He actually looked like was enjoying this intolerable cold.

He smiled down at her as she came close, green eyes sparkling. Laughing, he bundled her close, kissing the tip of her nose. An old man on the bench opposite smiled to see them. "You can't possibly be cold, can you Anouk?"

She burrowed in closer, catching the heady scent of resin on his jumper and breathing it in deeply. "How can you possibly _enjoy_ this, Maurice?" She retorted. "This wretched cold, this constant _damp_?"

"I thought you grew up beside a river?"

"A very well-behaved, polite river, that did not splash one every five seconds!"

He pulled a face. "A boring river."

"There is nothing wrong with boring occasionally." Slowly, they began to walk away from the edge of the pier. He ambled a little, content to linger and inhale the sea air. She controlled her steps to comply with his, curbing the instinct to stride along with her head thrown up. After all, it was too cold for that.

The little town of Gruissan was unusually cold this Easter, like the rest of the _Midi_ region. Icy winds had cut across the warmth of the Gulf Stream and barrelled over the width of France, leading to ice on the roads and an extension on winter wardrobes. It had even led to Chloe engaging in knitting, although Anouk suspected that that particular past-time sprang more from the solid beliefs of her new _beau_ Jean-Claude. Anouk chuckled as she dimly wondered how long it would be Jean-Claude's praises that would be sung and not Etienne's, the butcher's apprentice.

"Anouk?" They paused by a pair of flamboyant students busking with enthusiasm if not finesse.

"Nothing."

He paused in his own way. Vaguely confused green eyes studied her for a moment before he shrugged and kissed her again, making her heart soar. They continued walking along the parade, pausing occasionally and admiring the shop fronts. Those not worthy of note were politely ignored. Maurice did not believe it was right to pass disparaging comments if the efforts were less than praiseworthy.

"But really, don't you think, if only…"

"I suppose they did what they thought right, _cherie_."

Anouk pulled a face. She would rather destroy her entire stock than see it set up in such an unflattering manner. Maurice sighed and gave her one of those patient looks that sent her scrambling into throes of guilt. She leaned against him and shrugged, changing the subject. "Will we go dancing on Friday?"

His expression lightened. "Why not?"

She laughed and began to stand up on her toes to steal another kiss. He smiled at her and leaned down, only to frown and turn away at the last minute. She did not need to look up to see what had stopped him.

"Will you be going in to light a candle?"

He nodded, a sheepish smile crossing his face. It was a tradition with him, she had learned, that every time he passed a new church, he went in to light a candle and pray. A relic from his childhood, he described it, sometimes light-heartedly, sometimes with a seriousness that disconcerted her. After all, she herself had never set foot inside a church, had never even been baptised. That was one of the few things that separated them. She knew he was upset by her stubborn refusal to join him inside in the cool shadows of the church. But she couldn't.

That wasn't to mean he didn't try to persuade her.

"Would you like to…"

She shook her head. "I'll wait for you here."

Green eyes narrowed in frustration but then she smiled at him and they lightened. He could always forgive her everything. "I'll will see you soon _cherie_."

She watched him enter the chapel and sighed. For want of something to do, she wandered over to a newsagent by the promenade. There was a rack of magazines and newspapers out in front, _Paris-Flash _and_ Figaro_ featuring prominently among them. Tucking her scarf up a little closer, Anouk picked up the latest _Paris-Flash. _Bored brown eyes scanned the brightly printed pages. There was a little in the magazine as there ever was. A few articles by journalists who had far too puffed up an opinion about their own opinions; debutantes in Versailles, the odd interview with the great and the hypocritical. She was about to replace it on the stand when a flash of colour (bright red and extravagant) caught her eye. Curious, she flicked the pages on until the article flew open, a two page spread on the centrefold.

The magazine clattered to the pavement from nerveless fingers. Madame Helene, the proprietor, looking out the window, saw a pretty brunette staring as if carved from stone at one of her new magazines resting on the pavement. She roared out. "Put that back in its place, mam'zelle, or you will pay the price!"

Anouk mumbled an apology. She bent down and carefully with the tips of her fingers picked up the _Paris-Flash_. Shaking it open, she examined the picture, narrowing her eyes in surprise. "Luc?" She whispered. "Luc Clairmont?"

Nonchalant blue eyes stared out at her from underneath a gushing headline. Blonde hair flopped into his eyes, longer than she remembered. He wasn't quite smiling. It was more of a smirk, a twitch of the lips than a genuine smile. He was seated on a low black leather couch, his arm slung around a big eyed blonde. _The Young Monet_ ran the title of the article. It went on to describe how _le jeune Clairmont_ had won over critics and the public alike with his new styles and 'brave step backwards into exploring and reinterpreting the glory of France's Golden Age of Art, the infamous Impressionists.'

"_Mordieu_," Anouk murmured to herself. "So it was not just the Comte boasting to a captive audience."

"'Nook? What's that?"

"Ah!" _Paris-Flash_ tumbled to the ground once more. "Maurice, you scared me!"

"_Desolée_, 'Nook." He bent down slowly. "What were you reading?"

"Aaaah… Nothi-"

"Hah! Mam'zelle! I saw you!" The shop door crashed open. Madame Helene had come to the defence of her beloved publications. "Do not deny it, Mam'zelle, you dropped that magazine!" A gnarled hand was held up. Insistently, the dame jabbed a finger in the centre of her palm. "I warned you, Mam'zelle! Drop it all you like but pay for it first!"

And in the rush to find change enough to satisfy the price, courage enough to prevent the shop-mistress from bullying him into buying something else and determination enough to bring his girlfriend back to the bus-stop in time, Maurice forgot all about the mysterious magazine article.

* * *

She knew he was going to propose. Maurice was so hopelessly transparent; it was a miracle if he could even lie about his dinner. As it was, he'd been acting secretive all week long, avoiding her gaze, quizzing her about her favourite type of jewellery. "'Nook, do you like pearls? Or are diamonds your favourite?"

She wanted to tell him that rubies were her favourite and to stop calling her by that silly nickname or she'd beat him over the head with a skillet. But rubies were expensive and hard to find. And Maurice thought the name was pretty, less _foreign_ than the Greek 'Anouk'. So that was that then.

So they moved along another few weeks, slowly, slowly edging up to the event. So slowly, in fact, that Anouk often wondered if there was going to be an event at all or if it was all someone's idea of a sick joke. Maurice found work along the Rue de la Paix, Anouk crafted her chocolates and dispensed doses of a listening ear with cups of _chocolat chaud_ and every evening they had dinner together until ten o'clock. Maurice always left at ten because to leave earlier would be seen as rude; to leave any later would lead to the entirely wrong conclusions being drawn. He would wipe his lips, drink the last of his wine, then Anouk would escort him to the door (leaving the lights on so he would be clearly seen leaving). He would kiss her lips chastely, reserving any passion for when the doors were closed, and take his hat. She would wave goodbye. It was all very calm and civilised and very, very traditional.

She had a feeling her mother would not approve.

And most of the time, she did not care. She loved Maurice. He was so very handsome and so very kind and when he smiled, it was like a flood of affection came crashing down over her heart for him. He did not need the burden of knowing that the north wind had begun to blow once more.

It had come on quite suddenly, the day after their trip to Gruissan in fact. It had whipped around her bare legs as she had hurried from the train station, her jars of honey clutched in the basket in her arms. Calling her, bullying her. Nagging her. _Come Anouk. Come, your time is done here_.

When she even bothered to bend half an ear to it, she was disconcerted to discover there was a great deal of truth to her grandmother's urgings. In a way her time was done here. Michel and Jocelyn were engaged, the former languishing Romeo transformed into a hopeful zestful husband-to-be. Mathilde had achieved twenty out of twenty for mathematics in her annual notes from school. Madame Jorand was going to have a baby while Chloe was ever more devoted to the stolid Jean-Claude everyday. Madame Brigitte had even abandoned her mourning clothes in favour of a more becoming lilac shade. They had no need of _La Chocolaterie Maya_ anymore.

And besides, there was a restlessness in her, a need to shake the settled dust off her feet and stride onwards. Maybe it was a result of her grandmother's blood. Anouk was not quite sure. But it was not something Maurice would want in his wife. And she wanted to be his wife. Badly. Very badly.

So she ignored the wind once again. Cautiously, mind, with a weather eye constantly cocked for any unusual late spring storms. But still, stupidly, she ignored it.

* * *

The green silk crackled as she smoothed it down along her thighs. Biting her lip, she turned to the front and then the side, eyes narrowed, examining her figure. With a sigh of relief, she reassured herself that she was presentable. She may not be a willow wand –that would never be feasible anyway, with stout ancestry like hers – but she was no Three-Ton-Tessa or Big-Belly-Bertha as Chloe put it. Though maybe her hair was perhaps a little too straight… Anouk bit her lip and tried to fluff it up into obliging curls. Stubbornly, the dark brown strands remained as stick-straight as ever.

This would happen tonight. Tonight, one of the most important steps in her new life. At least she thought it was. All the magazines and the book she had rented from the library said so.

Tonight, she would meet with Maurice's parents. The so-strict Monsieur and Madame Jorand – Senior, of course.

Finally satisfied with her appearance, she threw a green shawl over her shoulders and stepped out into the night.

Only to be shoved back into the shop.

The howl of wind that had assaulted her was terrifying as much by the speed with which it had settled as its ferocity. The wooden signboard above her shop rattled hysterically, the golden lettering chipping with the bite of the wind. Freezing cold swirled around her legs, dragging her hair into her face, and snarling it into knots and matts. It shoved her back so hard; she stumbled and cracked her hip off the steel rim of the counter. She cried out in pain but the sound was lost in the howl of her grandmother's wrath at being disobeyed a second time. Trays of chocolate were hurled to the floor. Cacao was flung out of the way. It covered the wall, like mud on grass. Splinters of chocolate littered the ground like compost.

Gritting her teeth, Anouk fought to stand upright. "You can't stop me!" She hissed. "I will go to Maurice! I will!"

The delicate basket of truffles was hurled to the floor. Anouk cried out to see it. It was to have been a present for the Jorands, to ease her welcome into their family. "_Grande-mere_, stop it, please! I love him!"

The wind increased in volume, increased in ferocity. It shattered through the tiny shop, breaking open the display cabinet of chocolates. Fragments of glass flew all over the shop, tiny pieces of shrapnel in this war of wills. Anouk screamed. Her hands flew up ineffectually to cover her head but still the glass rained down on top of her. Tiny scratches seared across the exposed skin of her arms. She screamed again, pain burning her throat. "_Grande-mere_!"

The wind died down suddenly. Vindictively. Silence reigned for five minutes before Anouk plucked up the courage to peek out from underneath the shelter of her scratched and bleeding arms. Then a tinkle of falling glass broke the stillness.

Anouk did not need to crawl over behind her counter to see what her grandmother had destroyed as a final reminder. She knew. Even as she picked her way across the wooden floor, she knew.

The silver photo-frame was twisted out of shape. A single deep crack was etched across the protective glass, forever separating the two figures beneath it.

Herself. And Maurice.

She remembered when the photograph had been taken. It had been at the beginning of their courtship. The day of St Valentine. She had made heart shaped chocolates to celebrate. He had taken one and urged her to try it. Then someone had shouted. Awkwardly, they had turned, his arm caught around her waist, her hand still on his chest, pushing him off ineffectually. Caught together in celluloid forever. And now separated. Forever. Her grandmother's wish. The wish of her ancestors.

Anouk dropped the photograph frame, wrapped her bleeding arms around her stomach and wept.

* * *

Monsieur Leclerc disliked the early morning shift at the train station. Inevitably, he would have to redirect a few drunks off the rails, the trains were always late and half-full and the only papers to read were yesterday's. All in all, a situation that augured badly for his digestion.

The train to some half-baked town in Aquitaine was pulling in now. The Good Lord knew what that meant. Monsieur Leclerc gave a deep sigh and proceeded to shoulder his cross of emptying out the waiting room.

"_Mesdames et messieurs, s'il vous plait, s'il vous plait…_" He began wearily, hammering on the doors of the bathrooms and the lost luggage office. "_S'il vous plait, mesdames et messieurs!_"

The toilets disgorged their usual multitude of exhausted passengers, pushing past the scruffy station guard impatiently. Monsieur Leclerc gritted his teeth and continued on. "_S'il vous plait!_"

The waiting room was empty, he thought, sticking his head in the door and glancing around without much interest. A flash of red caught on the corner of his eye. Slowly, the station guard turned back, frowning. Who was ignoring his summons?

The girl couldn't have been more than nineteen. Swathed in a thick red cloak, she was huddled in the furthest corner of the waiting room. Brown eyes were staring fixedly at the wall. The only sign of life she gave was the occasional convulsion of her throat and the dirty tear tracks edging down her cheeks.

The garrulous little man swallowed, suddenly feeling very out of place in her obvious grief. Self-consciously, he removed his peaked cap and coughed. Red-rimmed eyes turned to him. He coughed. "The train for Aquitaine, mademoiselle. It will leave in three minutes." His voice was lower, unlike the aggressive bellow he used with the others.

She bit her lip. A white handkerchief, already screwed up into a tight damp ball, dabbed at the eyes. "T- thank you, monsieur. But I think I would like to... wait a little while. Please."

Henri Leclerc had never had any patience for those ninnies that wanted to 'wait a little while' in his waiting rooms. They were annoyances, pests and frequently refused to replace their rubbish in the bin.

"Of course mademoiselle. Take as long as you need."

* * *

**A/N**_: .... and that's the end of part one. Please don't forget to review! And also BIG THANK YOU to _**linalove** _for her reviews and _**Selene Holmes **_for her fav! Thanks, guys, I really appreciate it! _

* * *


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

I do not own _Chocolat_, book or film.

* * *

**~*~*~*~**

**In The Streets of Paris**

**~*~*~*~**

* * *

_January 1974_

_Three years later..._

* * *

Paris!

City of lights, city of shadows. City of poets, city of philosophers. City of satirists, city of fashion. The weak January sunlight filtered out over the roofs and domes of the Paris skyline, picking out the gold of the Sacré-Couer, spilling through the giant rose window of Notre-Dame, colouring the dawn Mass in ultramarine-blue, rose pink and gold. The pigeons hopped along the pavements of the Champs D'Elysée, dodging the impatient waiters in their waist high aprons as they set out the tables and chairs of the pavement cafés. The captains of the bateaux _mouche_yawned behind their hands as they made their way down to the docks and started up their steamboats. Down in the Elysée Palace, an aide rushed from room to room seeking out the Interior Minister. The flower sellers began to assemble in the Rue du President, shifting handfuls of lilies, roses and azaleas into neat bouquets that could be bought and sold for a few francs each. Across the way, the towering peaks of the despised skyscrapers cast a shadow over the streets.

In the Gare D'Austerlitz, a young woman in a red cloak put her battered black suitcase down on the platform. She inhaled experimentally.

Paris.

Long waves of brown hair nestled against the large collar of the cloak as Anouk tipped her head back to look at the sky. In between the iron bars across the ceiling, she could see the first glimmers of sunshine illuminate the January clouds. There were few people around at this hour. The commuter traffic from the suburbs would not be pouring into the capital for another hour. As a result, the pigeons perching on the iron bars were complacent, settling down as comfortable as chickens on a roost. Beyond the hissing of the trains and the iron clatter of luggage buggies, there was a low rumble of traffic, trams and taxis. She frowned a little to hear it. It was far louder than Briancon, that little town Durance river with the wide town square and the elegant Baroque church. Really, it was bigger and louder than any place she had been to in the past three years. Even this train station was bigger than some of the villages and hamlets she had called home over her life.

Glancing up at the large Victorian style clock, she sighed and picked up her suitcase once more. It was time to find a home.

* * *

It took her seven hours, four _arrondissements,_ twenty different conversations and roughly twelve miles of walking to find it. By the time she had finished speaking with the last estate agent and signed the twelve-month lease, it was four in the afternoon and she hadn't eaten since dawn. But somehow, she knew it was worth it.

"So, mademoiselle…" The sharp-suited agent checked the forms once more to see that she had signed every particular. "It seems we are all in order. You have signed the forms and paid the annual lease and spoken with Monsieur Etienne."

"Thank you Madame."

"Now all we need is… aha. Bon." Plump ringless fingers handed over the solitary key. Anouk took it, weighing it in her hand. "Now, mademoiselle, it appears we are all ready."

"Thank you madame." She repeated politely. The agent nodded happily and turned away. "Excuse me, madame?"

She turned back and smiled, a wide, open smile as comfortable as a pillow. "Oui, Mademoiselle Rocher?"

"Madame have you ever considered becoming a nurse?"

The agent blinked. The pen twitched nervously between her fingers. "A nurse?" The surprise had robbed her of both her hard-worn smile and determined etiquette.

"A children's nurse, perhaps." Anouk smiled in a friendly way. In the back of her mind was the thought that her mother would never be this direct in helping someone. But then, this was Paris and she was not her mother. Three years of wandering had taught her that much. "You are so kind and you smile so easily."

The corners of the agent's smile drooped. Cheerful green eyes slid away. "I…" She began hesitantly, shocked into confession by the direct attack. "I once thought… But Armand, he's my boyfriend, he does not like the idea of women in medicine. And the hours working for Monsieur Albert are very good."

"Ah. I understand." And for some reason Claudine, the agent, thought this unusual young girl did. She dug in the pocket of her coat for a moment, then smiled again as she pulled out a brown paper bag. With a nod, she held them out.

Slowly, Claudine peeled the edge of the bag down. A heavenly scent of mint julep and cocoa drifted up to tease her senses. She inhaled deeply, filling the air with the fragrance and sighed. "What a beautiful smell!"

"Take them." When she hesitated, Anouk nodded once more. "Please."

The ringless fingers hovered over the treats once more. "I couldn't. Armand… I need to go on a diet."

"These won't hurt you. I promise." At the doubtful glance, Anouk placed a hand over her heart and invoked the religion she had never known. "On the veil of the Virgin, I swear."

Claudine crossed herself automatically, blue eyes not leaving the brown paper bag. "I suppose…" She agreed doubtfully. Anouk's smile widened into a grin as the young agent lifted the brown paper bag from her hand and tucked it away in her pocket. One of the sharp tasting slabs was slipped from the bag and placed on her little pink tongue. Slowly, the smile melted across her face again, like warm chocolate. "They're delicious!"

"Just what you needed." Anouk promised, resisting the urge to rub her tired calves. "Perhaps you will come and visit me when my chocolaterie is ready."

The spice of intrigue deepened Claudine's smile. "Perhaps." She agreed eagerly. "After all, what Armand doesn't know cannot hurt him!" Impulsively, she tossed her hair and pinched her cheeks for colour. "_Au revoir_, Mademoiselle Rocher."

"_Au revoir_, madame." Anouk rubbed her eyes and chuckled as the plump Claudine strutted her way down the tarmaced street as happy as a peacock. Then she turned back to the property she had rented for the next year of her life.

It was tiny. A thin, one up, two down slice of a shop nestled in between a baker and a bookseller. There was a basement as well, Claudine had informed her, though it had not been used for years. Faded gold lettering across a royal blue façade spelled out the last occupant's profession: a cheese seller with the incongruous name of 'Milk of the Gods'. Peering in through the grimy window, one could make out that there was just enough room for a counter and a few chairs. Not much room for display then. An old chandelier, ransacked during the Revolution, hung from the high ceiling, the crystals encrusted with dust.

Above, there was a tiny balcony peeking out from the only window. Graffiti – though God alone knew how it had got up there – was painted across the outside wall, bellowing out a Situationist slogan: LET US BE CRUEL! Further examples of the art of that left wing student group from the student riots a few years ago were daubed half-heartedly on a wall at the corner of the quiet street. Claudine had told that at the height of the student riots, the entire street had been like a bombsite with symbols and slogans swabbed everywhere and the old cobblestones ripped up and used as weapons. This was, after all, the Latin Quarter, home to the Sorbonne and centre of student life. The air fizzed with youth and learning, spilling out from the university into the boulevards and streets surrounding it, even into her own little street just off the Rue Saint-Jacques.

Inhaling the scent of fresh bread drifting out from the door opposite, Anouk opened up her suitcase and took out a pre-made cardboard sign. Pinning it to the door of the tiny shop, she opened the door and pushed her way in.

As the door slammed shut, the new sign slapped against the painted wood. Monsieur Giscard, sneaking out during a lull in business, read it with some astonishment, his tiny eyes, behind their spectacles, squinting with surprise.

_La Chocolaterie Maya_: Soon to be Open for Business.

* * *

For the next week, Anouk cleaned.

She bought disinfectant and scrubbing brushes, beeswax polish and window cleaner. The wispy Mademoiselle Aimée from the corner shop was astonished when she was sold out of dusters and brooms in one morning. Tins of brass polish and earthy red paint were piled up haphazardly by the wall of her bedroom. Paintbrushes soaked in turpentine in the matchbox-sized lavatory. Seven tin buckets of painstakingly heated water stood by.

Then, when she had stockpiled enough cleaning agents to start a company, Anouk began.

She swept the dark floor free of mouse droppings. She removed the large panes of glass in the display cabinets and rubbed the last traces of cheese from their sides. She sat up all night polishing the brassware until it gleamed. She scrubbed the floor, whisked the cobwebs from the ceiling, broke into the basement and painted over the graffiti. She bought a few old sofas from a house-sale and washed the covers. She called for a plumber, a carpenter and a rat catcher. When the rat catcher didn't work, she bought a cat. She attacked the dirt with the zeal usually reserved for martyrs.

Slowly, the shop began to emerge. As she cleaned, Anouk began to discover things. There was a mural of Reubenesque cherubs dancing on the ceiling. Once cleaned, the crystals of the chandelier sent our waves of rainbows dancing in time with the breeze. Hidden away in the basement were old posters, celebrating the Moulin Rouge and the Chat Noir. Anouk hung them up behind her counter, enjoying the flamboyant sketches of dancing girls and aristocratic cats. She discovered the remains of an old iron bed rusting in the corner of her bedroom. For the minimal fee of one hundred francs and a cup of _chocolat chaud_ every day, the carpenter agreed to restore it, painting it black and arranging for a soft mattress to be bought. The washed covers of the sofas revealed rich brocade and hints of gold thread like the sun had been woven into cloth with the thread. In the middle of the roof was a skylight that lit up her entire bedroom.

The shop was coming to life under her hands.

* * *

Finally it was done.

The gold lettering of _La Chocolaterie Maya_shone from the earth-red sign above the door. The glass gleamed, the brass glowed dully. The tiny step upwards was polished and swept clean. Inside, the strip of wooden floor was polished to rich ochre. A faint scent of beeswax mingled with the darker undertones of cocoa, and honey from St. Nicolas. Bright, extravagant posters hung on the warm red walls behind the polished, crowded counter. In between them was a blackboard, the specialities for the day chalked up in white and decorated with purple and green swirls. At the end of the counter, a dozing tabby cat relaxed in the square of sunlight. The walnut counter was spotless, the carvings of angels along its panels reflecting the plump seraphim up above. The sofas were collapsing comfortably around tiny round tables, creating areas for gossip and discussion, trysts and confidences. Silk scarves and lace mantilla hung over their backs, only adding to the bohemian, hedonistic ambience.

But, without a doubt, the pride and glory of the entire shop was in its chocolates.

They were crammed into the display cabinets; they sat delicately within glass domes. Chocolates were dotted along the boards of the dresser and nestled in tiny cups on each table. They erupted in the window, reposing on red and gold silk like voluptuous courtesans. The steaming silver pot of _chocolat chaud_held court at the end of the counter, surrounded by large soupbowl-like cups.

Some of the chocolates were old recipes, picked at random - and yet not randomly - from the pieced together book that had been written down in her grandmother's cramped copperplate. Others smacked of her home in Lansquenet-sous-Tannes and her mother. But most Anouk had crafted herself, imbibing them with the taste of her many homes. There were the _roses d'or_, gilded with honey from her tiny village in the Cézannes and the dark chocolate rolls infused by lemon, bittersweet and sharp with her memories of Carcassonne and Maurice. There were the intense balls of white chocolate and pimento pepper from the time she had spent close by the Spanish border. The _montagnes noires_, lumps of milk chocolate soaked in rich wine from Aquitaine, the _bijoux blanches_ from the Alps. All of her homes expressed in chocolate. _La Chocolaterie Maya_ reborn.

On the Monday after her arrival, Anouk opened the doors.

* * *

_Don't forget to review! Reviews are stree-buster White Chocolate buttons that put a smile on the face of an revision weary student! Reviews are power! _

* * *


	6. Chapter 6

* * *

I do not own _Chocolat_, the book or the film.

* * *

**~*~*~*~**

**In The Streets of Paris**

**~*~*~*~**

* * *

It took two hours for the students of the Sorbonne and the other universities to discover _La Chocolaterie Maya_.

After that it took less than an hour for them to fill it to bursting.

The sagging sofas nearly touched the ground under the weight of human bodies pressing down on them. Students leant against the wall, sat unceremoniously on the floor and curled up by the counter. They assembled in packs, in couples and sometimes on their own, dragging the occasional text book or improving novel to occupy themselves while they sat and sipped their _chocolat chaud_. Like a pile of curious crows, they watched the crowds around them. The different accents from all over France mingled and rose as they argued. Sometimes they shouted at each other, trying to get their point across.

Anouk loved it. She loved picking out the various groups. She loved listening to the arguments about everything from Marxist philosophy to the latest hairstyles and she loved laughing with them about the latest tricks. She fielded clumsy flirtations and not-so-clumsy flirtations. Brown eyes flashing with enjoyment, she learned to hold her own on political debates. She dispensed chocolates, sympathised and congratulated in turn. It was as if she was joining in on part of her youth she had missed out.

Soon _La Chocolaterie Maya_ became the nucleus of life for the Sorbonne. The remains of the Situationists plotted protests and sit-ins while filling up on _montagnes noires_, their defiantly tatty clothes proclaiming their allegiance with the proletariat of Marx and Lenin. The die-hard hippies wafted in happily, enveloping the chocolaterie in a cloud of incense. Their long hair and bright flower-covered clothes provided a pleasing contrast to the serious scholarship students who chose brown and sensible navy as their primary colours. Intertwining between these primary strands were the American exchange students, the chic Parisians, the Occidents, the emerging punk rockers … The chocolaterie was filled from morning until late at night when Anouk finally folded her arms and mock-glared the dregs of her customers out from their immovable positions on the comfortable sofas.

Of course, it wasn't just the students that took advantage of the delicious smells permeating from the dull red walls. Anouk quickly learned to reserve a seat for Mademoiselle Aimée for when she scuttled in for her elevenses. She also learned that Monsieur Giscard tended to pop in at seven o'clock, eleven o'clock and four o'clock when it was quietest. Most of the students were away at tutorials or lectures then and he could be guaranteed a seat. Then there was the bookseller from next door, musty crane-like Monsieur Dominique who harrumphed loudly. Mademoiselle Angélique, a waitress in a café who despised the tight, frilly uniform that was obligatory in her workplace, enjoyed sitting next to the carpenter Monsieur Robert. And all of them, like so many others before them, took time to pour their worries and petty grievances into Anouk's ever-patient ears.

* * *

It was not long before Anouk had begun to gather her own group of friends around, like a dove gathering soft feathers to cushion her nest. These were few. She had learned the hard way that having many acquaintances did not augur for an easy departure when the North Wind blew. But still, she couldn't resist drawing a few of her customers in closer, sharing her own secrets with them as they did with her.

Separately, her new friends were as violently different as colours of the rainbow. Durant, who had collapsed in her shop one day after having fasted for a week in protest against college dinners, was morose and brooding, prone to fits of passion and adoration over the most unsuitable women. Bernadette, the hot-headed feminist from Strasbourg, dressed every day in a man's three piece suit and was idealistic and sharp-tongued. Lazy, absent minded Amabel slept through most of her lectures and earned extra money by posing for the art students. Outside the chocolaterie, they would barely have spoken to each other. With Anouk however, like those colours on a rainbow, somehow they managed to get along.

Even though Bernadette thought Amabel was subjugating herself as an object for men's pleasure, Even though Durant thought Bernadette would look better in a blouse than a too-large blue shirt, they never mentioned it.

Then there was Ninette.

Pretty, foolish, hopelessly shy Ninette.

Wide, lake-blue eyes stared out from underneath preposterously long eyelashes. Pale skin was stretched thinly over high knife-sharp cheek bones delicate as the first frost. Her hair was flaxen. If it had been allowed, it could have tumbled down her back in a mass of white waves, like a princess in a fairy story. As it was, it floated around her head like a veil, chopped up short by her ears. She was small, reaching Anouk's shoulder, with delicate bones and fairy-like hands. The heavy black jumpers she wore crushed down on her fragile body until she became hunched and stooped with the effort of holding them up. Still, she refused to change them. Flavian had given them to her, she protested. He had dyed them black with his own hands.

Flavian was Ninette's boyfriend. Anouk loathed him.

He was a Communist. At least, that was what he claimed he was. As far as Anouk could see, he did little for the cause except sit back on her sofa and give orders. Even though she knew from Monsieur Giscard that his parents were aristocrats from the Loire Valley, he affected the air of a down-trodden poet. He always wore a spotted red and white scarf knotted around his neck and a tattered brown jacket. Once or twice he even tried to spout his own verses. The disregard of structure and lyrical rhythm was so bad, Amabel, whose brother was a published author, was forced to vacate the premises. He enjoyed smoking large fat cigars from Cuba to 'support our brother Castro' he declared.

Now, Anouk had nothing against men who smoke. Some of the best men she had ever known had been smokers. It had been Roux who had passed her her first cigarette on her thirteenth birthday. The experience was enough to make her sick for two days and put her off practising smoking for the rest of her days. But that was beside the point.

No, Anouk had nothing against cigarettes. But she did object when he extinguished the cigars in her cups of _chocolat chaud_.

* * *

"That boy will end up no good." Monsieur Giscard muttered. The tiny eyes behind the heavy glasses narrowed in dislike. Anouk held her tongue. She swept the dishcloth over the counter, wiping away the tiny crumbs of chocolate left behind.

The plump baker eyed up the blonde student, chewing viciously on his plump lower lip. He had an especial vendetta against Flavian since a band of Situationists had 'honoured' his shop by painting Liberalism symbols on the windows. Giscard, an avowed Gaullist and supporter of the conservative right wing politics, had nearly passed out peacefully on the street when he arrived down to open up in the morning. Since then he refused to tolerate the presence of Flavian in his own business or anyone else's.

Flavian, oblivious to the beams of veiled dislike being shot at him, draped an arm across the plump shoulders of Jeanne Fremont. The other hand was employed in vigorous gestures as he pounded out the Situationist doctrine to the converted. They listened with all the scepticism of cowed sheep. The shy Jeanne seemed overawed by the casual attention of her hero. She cuddled up closer to him, as if some if his gilded glory could rub off on her. Anouk's eyes narrowed slightly as Flavian readjusted himself to accommodate her. His hand drifted a little lower. Anouk gritted her teeth on a hasty retort.

Monsieur Giscard nodded at her expression of dislike. "You comprehend, Mademoiselle." He observed quietly.

Anouk gave him a small polite smile. Without a sound, she went over to the chocolate pot and poured out another cup for Durant. He was drowning his sorrows over a new assistant professor who was not only engaged but also a capitalist.

"Eh! Mademoiselle! Another cup!"

The manicured fingers tapped impatiently against the walnut counter. Anouk's fingers tightened along the stem of the chocolate pot.

"In a moment, Monsieur." She replied neutrally. "I am serving this gentleman." Durant's large head shot up. She had never called him a gentleman before. In fact Anouk rarely spoke so formally to any of her customers after their second or third visit.

"Hurry up." Flavian sighed impatiently. He turned around and viewed his disciples with satisfaction. The fat Cuban cigar sent out a stream of smoke. "We should have a sit-in." He called back over to the Situationists. "In the History lecture, this afternoon."

A stocky brunette lifted his head from his notebook. "Professor Heland?" He asked, frowning. "That lecture? The one on Napoleon's reign?"

Flavian lifted the cigar from his lips, releasing a perfect smoke ring. "Of course. What better?"

The brunette shook his head and blinked. "What's he done to you, Flavian? He's just doing his job, for God's sake."

"You would think that, Fernand."The blue eyes did not even glance down as Anouk silently filled his cup. "But I would expect little more of you."

Fernand sighed in disgust. "Heland won't take it lying down, Flavian." He warned. "You'd be better off staying here. It's warm. Good company." He grinned at Anouk. Relaxing a little, the dark-eyed woman rolled her eyes at him. Quietly, she slid his next chocolate over to him with a smile of thanks.

"Can you think of nothing but the proletariat rubbish that's been pounded into your skull?" Flavian sipped the _chocolat chaud_. He grimaced and replaced it. "This is our time to stand up for our beliefs."

"And be beaten down by Heland." Fernand bent his head once more.

"He wouldn't dare." Flavian snapped. With hard sharp actions, he shoved himself up from the counter.

Then Ninette entered the café.

She had removed the jumper today. It was unusually warm for February and many of the Parisians had shed their winter clothes in favour of lighter fabrics, cottons and even, for the hardy, gauze and silk. The dress was neat on her slight figure. The bright colours of the printed flowers gave colour to her cheeks: a bright delicate rose-flush. Her silvery-blonde hair hung in loose waves around her face. She was smiling.

Flavian scowled.

Eyes as wide as sapphires turned up at the corners to see him. Floating over, she kissed him on both cheeks. Her cheeks burned slightly as Fernand whistled in approval. "Bonjour Flavian."She whispered.

"What do you think you are wearing?"

She blinked. "I… It was warm so I thought…I thought…It's such a pretty…"

She deflated like a helium balloon under his glare. "We were going to have a protest."

"I'm sorry but I thought…"

He snorted. "_You_ thought?"

Ninette bit her lip. She seemed to shrink into the ridiculous dress. "I thought the protest was for tomorrow." She offered up.

Flavian was taking no prisoners. He ignored Fernand's frown, Anouk's icy gaze and the self-righteous huffs of Monsieur Giscard. "The plans have changed."

"Oh." She bowed her head. "I didn't know. I'll just go get changed… I'm sorry."The last two words were lower than a mouse's whisper.

Anouk felt her temper rise. It was not often that she became angry. She had learned the hard way that you catch more bees with honey than with vinegar. But when someone treated her friends like that…

Then Flavian did the unforgivable.

The pale white hand reached behind his back. A fine line of ash drifted onto her counter from the cigar clutched between his fingers. He tapped the cigar once… twice.

Then extinguished it in the cup of chocolate.

It was then Anouk knew that she was capable of murder.

Flavian shoved past the pale figure of Ninette, shaking his head in disgust. "Hey, _mes amis_!" The Situationists glanced up as one. "Let's go, we have a protest to plan."

They cheered. They cheered. While Ninette stood immobile, her head still bowed. They moved out en masse. Jeanne Fremont hung back until she was at Flavian's side. Then they walked out of the café am in arm.

Immediately, sympathy surged around the crushed Ninette. Bernadette prowled around her like a protective bear, muttering dire threats against Flavian's sex and insisting Anouk press cups of _chocolat chaud_ on her. Amabel ordered one of her boyfriends to run to the student quarters and fetch the heavy black jumper. Then she rubbed Ninette's hands and suggested various oils and lotions to relax. Monsieur Giscard, unused to female tears, bolted back to his bakery and Durant followed him post haste afterwards.

Anouk watched Ninette bleat out the old excuses of love and fidelity and knew - the same way she knew sugar tasted sweet and she was born on a Sunday – that one day Flavian would not just restrict himself to verbal blows. And she held her tongue.

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**Don't forget to review! I am procrastinating by posting this. I should be doing my homework. I _really really_ should be doing my** **homework. So make me happy and review!**

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	7. Chapter 7

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I don't own _Chocolat, _the book or the film.

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**In the Streets of Paris**

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There was an old saying in Lansquenet-sous-Tannes that the day you find a feather in your path, you will meet someone special.

Someone really special. One of those fulcrum people that can change your life completely. The type of people that can change your life until you can't remember the past. They say that the feather is a sign from your guardian angel. A type of early-warning system, you could say. It's to remind you that there is always someone looking for you.

In Lansquenet-sous-Tannes, the children were taught this in the Sunday school. An old martinet, Sister Amelie of the Poor Clares, would travel down from the convent several miles away every Sunday afternoon in a rusty old Renault and instruct them in the lore of the catechism for an hour. And not just the ritual and pomp of the High Mass but the simpler ceremonies and traditions. The traditions that came from the people rather than from Rome. Like building a May shrine for the Virgin or knowing which holy wells can cure warts.

But Anouk, being the daughter of Vianne Rocher, had never attended this institution. So when she woke before dawn one Tuesday morning with a white feather resting on her pillow, she thought nothing of it.

Not then.

* * *

"Anouk, don't you see? By wearing these… these skirt contraptions you're unconsciously submitting to a patriarchal world. It's like you're saying to every available man, 'Oh, come on, and watch my good child-bearing hips!'"

"Bernadette, it's just a skirt. It's a piece of cloth, wrapped around my waist. It keeps me warm. It stops me getting arrested by the _gendarmes_ for public indecency. What," Anouk rubbed a particularly stubborn cigar burn – Flavian again – with the vinegar soaked cloth. "What's… so terrible… about… that?"

"It's a symbol of subjugation!"

"It's a skirt!"

"It's not even a very short skirt either." Amabel sipped her _chocolat chaud_ slowly, savouring each drop. Bernadette gave her an aggravated look.

"Thank you, Amabel. A useful piece of observation, I must say." The sarcasm was as thick as cream.

Amabel blew her accusation away with a wave of her fingers. "Poof! I don't care." She declared. "It is a woman's duty to be beautiful. You will never convince me that is not so."

Bernadette gritted her teeth. Beseechingly, she turned back to Anouk. "Look," She said, loosening her pinstriped tie. "If we ever…"

"We?" Amabel choked in disgust. "We? There is no _we_. _I_ don't believe in all this ridiculous American falminist..."

"It's feminist, you illiterate… _Mordieu_! I swear, if it were up to you, we'd still be in the dark ages. Fainting in corsets!" Bernadette snarled, banging the table. The tiny cups rocked. Anouk groaned and moved them to the other side of the counter.

Amabel's sleepy hazel eyes snapped into life. "At least corsets would be more becoming than suits. You look like a man!"

"That's the bloody point!" Gritting her teeth, Bernadette spun off the stool. She stomped over to the first sofa. Her battered leather briefcase was resting there, beside an exhausted Durant. With a bark of annoyance, she ordered him to move. He looked about to refuse but then caught the militant glint in her stormy grey eyes. A similar glint had glittered in the eyes of the peasant women as they had knitted beside the guillotines of the Revolution. He hurried to his feet, mumbling curses and moans of pain. With a sharp recommendation not to drink so much absinthe if he didn't want to get hung-over, Bernadette lugged the old briefcase back to the counter. "Here. You'll see." She promised, rifling through the mess of papers. "I'll show you what happens when women let men make all the choices. I'll show you…"

Amabel peeped behind incredulous fingers. She had covered her face with her hands the moment Bernadette had produced the case. She disliked any reminder of the business world. "Anouk, stop her!" She cried pathetically. "I'm going to be sick if she produces anymore poetry!"

Anouk laughed at the red-head's anguished cry. Reaching out, she placed a hand on Bernadette's shoulder. "Bernadette, relax. We believe you. Have some more chocolate. Have a _rose d'or_."

Bernadette jerked her hand off. "No!" She snapped. Anouk rolled her eyes. "Tradition… Womanliness… You'll see! It's a cage! Here!"

The two women peered down at the offending article slammed down on the counter.

"'_Paris-Flash_'?"

"Of course!"She pointed at the magazine with the same hatred as a Puritan Elder might betray during the Salem Witch Trials."Open it! To page seven!"

Anouk exhaled in exasperation. Flicking through the pages, she paused at page six. A furious mewl from her friend urged her on.

Her stomach plummeted. Far-too familiar blue eyes gazed out at her from the shiny paper pages. For a moment she was back on the promenade at Gruissan, at that ridiculous little kiosk and Maurice was waiting behind her, his warm comfortable bulk a complete contrast to the cool elegance in the pages between her hands… But Maurice was in her past now and it still hurt to think of him and what might have been: marriage, a home, children, comfort…

Distantly, she heard Bernadette's triumphant crow. "You see? _That_'s what's wrong with our society today. They promote women as useless ornaments, only to be painted and made love to. We are demoted from the sense of being useful! This Clairmont guy…"

Amabel was off on a completely different opinion. "Is that a genuine _Dior_? _Sacré diables_, if that's the opposite of feminism, I'm all for it!"

"Oh for the love of… You'll see, next week they'll be married in a wide media zoo and divorced in six months."

"Divorced? In this country? Be serious Bernie."

"It's _Bernadette_." came the outraged hiss. Amabel waved her off.

"_I_ think it's romantic. I wouldn't mind be proposed to by a man who could keep me in Dior gowns. What about you Anouk? Anouk?"

Anouk shook herself. She had been remembering and remembering was bad. She looked at her friends. Something in her dark brown eyes disconcerted them. Bernadette paused and coughed. "Anouk?" She tried again.

Anouk paused. Then she knew her answer. She shrugged carelessly. "I never cared for Dior. It doesn't change often enough for me."

Bernadette blinked. She hadn't been expecting that answer. Since she did not know the difference between rags from a junk-shop and silks from a couture house, the significance of that metaphor was lost on her. Not so with Amabel, who covered her mouth once more, dissolving into delicious giggles. Her laughter caught on with Anouk. Slowly a grin tickled its way across her wide lips, softening the strong line of her jaw. With an extravagant toss, she threw the cloth in her hand away. It flew up and up, then hooked onto the edge of the dresser that dominated the back of the counter. With the air of someone shaking off old dust, she dragged her long loose brown hair back from her face. "I'll never marry." She said firmly. Her friends didn't realise how truthfully she was speaking.

"Neither will I." Bernadette agreed stoutly. "I have far more important things to be doing." With a venomous look at Amabel, who was watching them both from underneath veiled incredulous eyes, she clicked the briefcase shut. "Like actually attending my lectures." She marched out of the shop. The door slammed behind her.

Pulling out a compact mirror, Amabel checked her new lipstick. "Well, I think you're both crazy." She said conversationally, as if Bernadette had been little more than a gust of wind. "Especially you Anouk. Isn't' chocolate the food of love?"

"I thought it was music."

"Only according to the Italians. We are French, you and I. We know better."

Steeling herself from reading over yet another article about Luc Clairmont, Anouk stuffed the magazine into a drawer in the dresser. "I have no time for romance." She declared simply. Without glancing back, she moved around her little café, clearing the tables of paper plates and empty cups. The café was quiet now, empty after the morning rush. Most of the students were in lectures and classes. Monsieur Giscard was not due in until eleven. Their little street was as empty as her café. Few tourists tended to come down here. Even at the height of the summer season, only one or two braved the labyrinth of streets around France's most famous university.

Amabel finished touching up her make-up. Pressing a tissue to her newly rouged lips, she decided to offer her friend a life-line. "I know some very nice young men…"She coaxed, her voice muffled by the tissue.

Inwardly, Anouk marvelled at how her single state seemed to inspire would-be matchmakers to their greatest efforts. If she had a _sou_ for every time she heard that line… "No Amabel."

"I don't know why you're being so mean." She flounced her red curls petulantly. "You're really quite pretty Anouk." A sly look came into her eyes. "I heard Henri compare to you to a Dark Aphrodite."

"Henri is an art student. And, what is worse, he's a melodramatic one."

The compact shut with an irritated snap. "You are acting like a child!"

This was ridiculous coming from a girl who could barely make toast without burning it. Anouk ignored the murmur of voices outside her window and sighed. "You have no right to lecture me about love when you cannot keep the same boyfriend for more than a week!"She pointed out, bending down on her hands and knees to gather up the bundle of philosophy notes that had been left beneath her sofa. Marxism again. It seemed to be the philosophy of choice among her customers.

Her brown hair fell into her face, obscuring her vision. She shoved it back from her face irritably. For a moment, she wished for a hair-tie. She had slept late this morning and had no time to tame the brown strands in their usual plait. Generally leaving her hair loose wasn't so bad. She had some vanity after all and enjoyed seeing it frame her face like a brown velvet curtain. But it was next to useless when she needed to do some work.

Amabel's voice floated over to her. "At least wear some make-up, Anouk. You look like a hag in that drab brown. And why don't get your hair permed? It would look so much nicer than in a bird's nest all the time."

Anouk gritted her teeth. Her temper had calmed over the years she had spent wandering around France. She had learned to be patient and quiet and know when to bite her lip and say nothing. Again, she reminded herself that Amabel had always been like this. Would always be like this. She was simply too lazy to bother being tactful. Anouk reminded herself that she was above unknowing insults. "I haven't the time."

"You never leave the café, you never go dancing…" Anouk fixed her eyes upon the angels painted on the ceiling and for the first time in her life prayed for patience to accept her annoying friend.

"Amabel, I don't care. I'm not really fond of dancing."That was a lie of course. She loved to dance, almost as much as she had learned to love the ritual of making chocolate. But since Maurice, she simply hadn't bothered. It seemed too much like she was setting down roots in a place.

Amabel brushed it aside. "Don't be silly. I know a great discotheque down on the Rue des Veuves. The bouncers will let us in…"

Anouk shot up. "Am-" Her head cracked off the top of one of her tables. She yelped in pain. The pain broke her temper. "_I am not going to the discotheque_!" She yelled, on her hands and knees under the table.

The door to the café opened.

Someone coughed. It was a rich man's cough, the type that Anouk recognised from her time in Carcassonne. Two leather shoes, polished until they were as brown as autumn chestnuts appeared in her line of vision.

Judging by the silence, Amabel seemed lost for words.

The shoes shifted. "Are you the owner of this shop?" The voice asked politely. It was a man. He did not sound Parisian. At least not completely. There were a medley of different inflections in his voice, few of which Anouk recognised. He rolled his rrr's like a man from her home region in the north, but there was a liquid quality about his vowels that sounded faintly Italian.

"I…" Amabel sounded like a drowning fish. "You, you… You're…"

Anouk climbed to her feet before the man thought her café was being run by a lunatic. "No, M'sieur." She said smoothly, brushing down the dust from her skirt. "I am the proprietor." She couldn't tell why she was suddenly being so formal. This man seemed to put her on her guard and he hadn't even turned around.

He was tall, she saw, examining him quickly. Dark blond hair was cut neatly, tighter than most of the male students wore it. His skin was tanned but in such a way that she thought he had been pale originally. He wore camel coloured culottes and a blue shirt, light blue, like the sky. There was a smear of red paint along one sleeve.

He turned around.

Anouk knew why Amabel had been speechless. For a moment, she couldn't believe it herself. She just stood there, staring. Then she gathered herself up. Inhaling deeply, she lifted her chin and met his gaze head-on.

"Luc Clairmont."

The blue eyes gleamed. "Anouk Rocher. It's been a long time."

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_Eeep! I should be doing my Special Topic right now for History, I'm exhausted after the stress of doing Maths (hate, hate, hate!) and Biology. I think my hand is cramping and tomorrow I have to absorb the recent history of Northern Ireland and twelve poems in time for a History test where I have to write a succinct, intelligent essay (5 pages long) in 42.5 minutes and for an English test where yes! There is alos two five page essays! _

_Okay enough whinging. But please **review**! It makes the cramps in my hand go away. :)_

_AmicableAlien_


	8. Chapter 8

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I do not own _Chocolat_, film or book.

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**In The Streets of Paris **

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Luc Clairmont strolled down the twisted street, a small smile curling at the corner of his lip. Behind him, Marguerite stalked along grumpily. Her black curls hung despondently over her face like a curtain, like a veil. Stubbornly, she refused to look at him. She had been sulking ever since they left the chocolaterie.

It had been his idea to walk down by the university. He hadn't left his apartment since Sunday morning, being absorbed in his painting, trying to capture just the right light on Marguerite's porcelain skin. Eventually, after seven hours straight of sitting and listening to her occasional mewls of boredom, he'd found it, that subtle blend of brown and red and white and yellow. He could still remember the exhilarating rush of relief and joy mixed together when he realised that he had caught it. He imagined a botanist must feel the same way when they found a new species of flower or carpenters, when they run their hands over a new piece of wood and feel the chair or cradle that is embedded in the soul of the tree. It was the thing that kept him pushing on, for painting is not easy and so often it was filled with frustration.

Once the light was found, he was off, painting so fast, he could barely fill his palette with enough colour before running out again. Blues, reds, yellows, crimson, emerald and burnt umber. The flower in her hand, the wooden loveseat behind her. Her feet, the hidden curve of her ribs and stomach, the beam of light along her voluptuously elegant neck. He painted like a mad man, like a demon, ignoring the hunger in his stomach, the growing numbness of his bare feet, cold on the bare wooden floor without socks or shoes. He could barely breathe. He forgot to breathe. All he knew was the canvas before him and the fragments of colour dancing before his eyes.

Then he was finished. He took a breath. A deep shuddering breath.

And announced that he was hungry.

Marguerite refused to cook. She didn't know how and didn't bother to learn. Even if she did, he had no oven, no cooker. It hadn't occurred to him when he'd bought this apartment. So they'd made their way for a late breakfast down in the cafés on the Champs D'Elysee. Personally, Luc preferred the bistros around Montmartre and the other quartiers. He enjoyed watching the rest of Paris mill around him, sneaking down little sketches of them as he could. He enjoyed the hearty country food, the bouef bourguignon, the bouillabaisse and the stews. They reminded him of his mother's cooking back in Lansquenet-sous-Tannes. But Marguerite was of aristocratic stock. She refused to eat among the working class. If he ever even suggested heading away from the leafy utopia around the Arc de Triomphe, she would pull the pink bow of her lips down into a little moue and ask plaintively: "Luc, why do you even want to go there?"

She had said the same thing when he'd expressed a desire to head down by the Latin Quarter. He'd bit back the rising irritation at her fastidiousness and, after five minutes, had persuaded her to go. They had wandered down past the Jardin de Luxembourg; empty this morning of the Algerians who commonly populated it. Then they took a left turn and ended up in this tiny little street.

When he'd seen the sign, _La Chocolaterie Maya_, it had been like a punch in his stomach. How many times had he passed under that sign when he was younger? It must have been nearly every day since Vianne and her daughter had appeared in Lansquenet-sous-Tannes. Instantly a fierce surge of protectiveness seemed to pass through him. He was furious that someone had taken the name and abused, violated it on their own petty merchandise. Before he could stop himself or listen to Marguerite's bleats, he was inside.

It had been like coming home. He'd stood there, shocked for an instant.

Really, it was nothing like the café in the little town by the Tannes River. It was cramped and squishy. Large couches with tiny tables were squeezed in every nook and cranny. Posters from the Golden Age hung on the wall advertising can-can girls in frilly underwear. Vianne's café had always been so spacious and easy. The only paintings had been the occasional landscape that was pinned to the boards and could not be removed.

But the smell. _Sangdieu_, the smell…

It was chocolate. Rich, dark, and creamy with other aromas mixed in like a tapestry made up of different coloured threads. Apples and honey, wine and pepper. There were other scents there too. Cigarette smoke feathered the edges. There was an undercurrent of clean brisk beeswax. But chocolate drowned the senses and lifted the soul to Heaven. If he were a religious man, he would have genuflected.

There had been a redhead sitting at the counter, lounging in the way all beautiful women do, even when nobody is watching them. She couldn't have been the proprietor but he nodded to her anyway. Papa-Paul had instructed him that all women deserve manners, even if they do not exhibit them themselves. He'd been about to ask her where the owner was when a cool voice had issued out a greeting behind him. Cool like river water. He turned and saw her.

Anouk Rocher.

Even now, strolling through the streets with another woman hanging onto his arm, he grinned. Anouk Rocher. _Anouk_ Rocher. Madame Vianne's daughter. She had changed. What age must she be now? Twenty, twenty-one? She was a year young than him. He remembered that. That had always annoyed her.

She had been hideously dressed. The brown skirt was like a sack on her, swamping over her figure. She wore what looked like a grandmother's blouse and an old jumper that put years on her age. Somehow though, she caught his eyes. Maybe it was the way she linked her hands so primly or the contrast between her proud expression and the uncontrollable brown hair tumbling over her shoulders. Or maybe he was lying to himself. Maybe he should just admit that Anouk Rocher had always been able to catch his gaze and hold it, ever since she first appeared in Lansquenet-sous-Tannes.

Her voice had been frosty. "Luc Clairmont."

He'd wanted to provoke her. "Anouk Rocher. It's been a long time."

It was laughable, the obvious attempt she made to hold back her quick retort. White teeth bit down on her lower lip. She swallowed convulsively.

At last she seemed to trust herself to speak. "Yes, it has. What are you doing here?"

"I needed the exercise."

She folded her arms. Brown eyes glared into his. "You know what I meant, Luc Clairmont. What are you doing… here."

He copied her, folding his arms and straightening up until she had to raise her chin to meet his eyes. "I live here, Anouk Rocher."

"I thought you lived in London."

"So you've been keeping an eye on me, no?" He couldn't resist teasing her. She'd always been quick to lose her temper.

She made an impatient gesture, flicking the brown hair away from her cheek. "Why should I bother? It is none of my business where you live."

"I live in the Rue Malsherbes. For your information."

"And I should care… why?"

" So you may report to my mother that I am not living in a garret in Montmartre."

Her lips tightened. Ah. He was beginning to get under her skin. "You went to school as I did, Luc Clairmont. Write your own letters."

"I am a busy man, I have no time."

"_Oui_, you are a painter." Her lips curled up in mocking amusement. "Daubing paint on a page takes so long, doesn't it?"

His easy grin fell. Abruptly, he scowled. His stance shifted again until he was straight and threatening. "Art is not simply slapping oils on a page." He snapped. "You should know that, Anouk Rocher. But then, it was you, was it not, who could barely move beyond stick figures?"

She rolled her eyes in disgust. But the flush slashing across her cheeks betrayed her, even as she pushed past him. Her shoulder bumped hard into his. He did not think it was an accident. "I have a business to run, Luc Clairmont." She retorted. "Buy something or leave."

"Then if you are so busy I could come in tomorrow, perhaps." She froze. He watched her, the grin returning. "It is not so difficult."

"I thought you were a busy man."

"I am. But it warms my heart to offer assistance to my countrywomen."

A strangled sound somewhere between a snort and a snarl broke out. His grin widened. The redhead at the counter was staring at him as if he were a ghost made flesh.

"After all, Anouk Rocher, someone needs to correct your education in the arts."

If she turned around now, she would kill him. He could see the way her hands were clenching into fists on the walnut wood, the way her hair nearly crackled with irritation. He picked up a tiny chocolate sphere from the basket near his elbow. The dark cacao was bitter on his tongue, the sharp tartness of lemons balancing and yet not cancelling out the flavour. He found a few sous in his pocket and clicked them on the table.

"For the chocolate."

She nodded. A flash of white showed through her hair. He frowned. The colour was too dirty to be the neck of her blouse. Stepping over to her, he slipped his fingers in between the mass of brown.

She reacted like a cat. Her hair flew around; her hand flew up to strike. He twisted his head quickly, to dodge the slap. "Anouk, relax! Look!"

A tiny piece of chewing gum was perched between his two fingers. She stared at it dumbly. Slowly a flush of embarrassment crept up her cheeks.

Quietly, he laid the sticky piece of gum down on the counter and stepped away. His hands spread wide. Gently, he touched her shoulder. He wanted to be sure that she was listening to him. "Tomorrow, Anouk Rocher."

She mumbled something inaudible. He was halfway out the door, when she finally spoke clearly.

"I'll kill them for putting chewing gum under my table."

He burst out laughing. He even laughed now as they turned out from the closed in streets on the Latin Quarter to walk by the Seine. Marguerite looked at him in outrage. "You have no sensibility." She hissed.

"None, _cherie_." He turned around and rested against the iron railings. "Absolutely none." The sky was blue above, pale ultramarine mixed in with white and a hint of turquoise. He smiled up at it.

"You knew I was on a diet, Luc. You know I refuse absolutely to eat chocolate."

He looked at her. She had been modelling for him for the past two months. They had shared several things: meals, conversation and a bed. But never chocolate. "You, Marguerite, are not a woman who eats chocolate." He said simply. She took it as a compliment.

"_Sans doute_. Me, I have more self-control than the bourgeoisie." She declared with a pointed tilt of her chin. "I am admired for that. I say this without vanity." A defined black eyebrow rose against porcelain skin. "You will not entreat me to return there, Luc?"

"No, Marguerite, I will not."

"_Bon_. We will instead…"

"I will return on my own."

"Luc!" She span around. "If you return to that cramped little corner shop I shall never forgive you, mon cher. Never, never, never! It is a place for… for hooligans and for students and… and…" She stamped her foot, unable to express herself coherently.

"Then I should, how the Americans say, fit right in, shouldn't I?" He retorted. She stamped her foot again. Luc had always gone as he pleased, she knew. She had never been able to drive him. Most of the time, he would carry along with her happily, escorting her to parties, meeting with friends. But when he dug his heels in…

"You are different and you know that well! You have exhibited in London and… and Rome and Venice…" A sly look came into the jewel-bright eyes. "It was that _chocolatiere_, wasn't it? That frumpy, lumpy one in the brown."

His eyes turned cold. "Sheath your claws, Marguerite. She's an old friend of mine. Nothing more."

"Pah! So that is it! You wish for the country squat in brown!" She tossed her black hair back. "I wish you the joy of her, _mon cher_, for I will not be there to see her fall!" She glanced back at him to catch his reaction to her dramatic speech. Her eyes widened. "Luc? Where are you going?"

He turned back and spread his hands. "If I wish for dramatics, Marguerite, I will visit the theatre! You want to end it? Bon, it is done." His hands fell. His smile was as hard as his expression. "We are finished." Turning around, he marched up along the Left Bank.

Behind him, Marguerite screamed in frustration. He ignored her. The relationship had been over before he ever even thought of entering the Latin Quarter. It had been over for days only he had been too absorbed in his painting and the basic cycle of eating and sleeping to do anything about it. Now, with the painting finished, he felt almost cleansed.

Digging into his pocket, he pulled out the tiny white feather. He had found in his pillow earlier in the week and, curious, he had shoved it into his pocket to keep safe. Twisting it this way and that, he smiled slowly.

Unlike Anouk, he had regularly attended the Sunday school classes with Sister Amelie.

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A/N: Please don't forget to review! Reviews speed up the muse and her process! Reviews = white chocolate Buttons. White Chocolate Buttons = food for the muse.


	9. Chapter 9

I do not own _Chocolat_, the book or the film.

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**In The Streets of Paris**

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"Has he come yet?"

Those were the first words out of Amabel's mouth as she crossed the threshold of La Chocolaterie Maya the next morning.

Bernadette, wilting at the counter, scowled. Cheery voices at this hour of the morning did little to improve her drooping mood. She had attended at feminist gathering in a garret beside the Luxembourg Gardens last night. The absinthe had flowed like a green river and she had unfortunately overindulged. "Has who come yet?"

Amabel flounced over to the counter. A sweet musk, that reminded Anouk vaguely of the stories of Arabian Nights, drifted from her white skin and tumbling waterfall of red hair. "Anouk's man, wretch." She retorted without too much vinegar. "He promised he would come by today." Her eyes rolled dramatically. "_Mon Dieu_, if he wasn't so obviously interested in Anouk, I'd try to steal him for myself. He's that…" She fanned herself dramatically, avoiding Anouk's dagger-like gaze.

Bernadette's cloudy eyes cleared a little. She raised her head from the sprawl on the counter and studied the impetuous red head. Curiosity, a woman's curse, and disapproval warred in her soul. As a true feminist, she revered Jean-Paul Sartre's theory of existence precedes essence and had done so since her early years. She had fought against the traditional stereotype of a woman since her teens and knew she should be above such petty constricting concerns as a good-looking man. But still… "Who is he?"

"Who is who?" Ninette came up for air from the litany of notes she was copying. She had a Literature essay due on Victor Hugo. "Anouk is in love?"

"No, I'm…"

"She is!" Amabel butted in blithely. "He came into the café yesterday and found her. He…" She paused, savouring the next words. "He delved his hands in the shining mass of her hair!"

Ninette's blue eyes widened like a kitten. "Really?"

Bernadette muttered something rude.

Anouk felt a slight flush creep up her cheeks. "No, not really, I…"

"He can't have." Bernadette growled. The migraine crashed across her temples like a marching band. "Anouk always wears her hair tied up."

Amabel waved her hands airily. Red nail polish caught the light. "Well, yesterday it was loose, _naturellement_. And he swore he would return…"

"Threatened." Anouk muttered. "He threatened he would return…"

"…He would return today." Amabel finished.

Two pairs of wide eyes stared at their friend in astonishment. Well, one pair of wide eyes and one pair of eye-slits. The sunlight was still too harsh for Bernadette.

Anouk clanged the metal tray of the cash register shut with a loud crash. "He is nobody." She insisted through gritted teeth. "An old school friend. that's all. Not even that. And before you think anything of it…" She added, with an especial glare for Amabel. "He did not delve his hands into my hair…"

"Yes, he did." Amabel interrupted nonchalantly.

"He took out a piece of chewing gum! That's all."

"That's all?" Ninette was disappointed. The too-big black sleeves of her jumper fell down as she rested her chin on her hands, exposing skinny white arms. "He didn't… I don't know. Smile?"

"He did smile and of course that's not…"

"Yes." Anouk shot a quick glare at Amabel. "That's all." She shrugged. "He probably won't even turn up today. There's no point in hoping."

"Oh Anouk, don't say that!" Ninette's face creased in anxiety. She hated to even think of anyone being miserable. It made her want to cry herself. "He will turn up, I promise!"

Anouk laughed at her stricken face. "Ninette, I promise, he is nothing to me." She served a silent hippy from Limoges and turned back to her friends, wiping her hands on the makeshift apron. "We grew up in the same village, that's all."

"What village was that?" Ninette asked innocently. "Was it in Provence?" She had often noticed that Anouk's accent had a slight Provençal lisp to it, particularly when she was upset or angry.

Anouk closed her lips. She had never told any of her friends about her original home. When they had first begun to ask, she had only waved them off vaguely, muttering about coming from the country. Lansquenet-sous-Tannes was another lifetime for her. She tried not to think about it too much.

Amabel powdered her nose carefully. Throwing the fresh-faced Ninette an irritated look over the tiny compact mirror, she huffed. "What does it matter what village it was? Every village is the same anyway." She added with the carelessness of someone city born and bred. "What is important is that he is due any moment and Anouk…" She glared at the brown haired woman. "Anouk is being stubborn and refuses to put on something more becoming. More chic!"

"There is nothing wrong with what I'm wearing!" Anouk snapped. Seeing nothing but scepticism in Amabel's lovely face, she turned to the final customer sitting by her counter. "Mademoiselle Aimee, is there anything wrong with my clothes?"

The old woman choked on her chestnut ganache. She had been ignored up to now and this had suited her well. But suddenly she was thrust into the limelight. She dabbed nervously at her mouth with a monogrammed handkerchief. Watering blue eyes surveyed the convent skirt, the high necked blouse in a practical and unforgiving brown and the scraped back hair. "I… _petite_, I ... ooh…" She dissolved into silence, terrified to voice an independent opinion and terrified to offend by remaining silent.

Monsieur Giscard, lumbering in the door, swooped to her rescue, with the instincts of an overweight owl. "You are perfectly demure, Anouk." He replied, if a little pompously. Mademoiselle Aimee nodded vigorously. She always preferred to have a male opinion to cling to than assert her own point of view. Unfortunately for Monsieur Giscard, not all women at the counter were so compliant.

"Bah! You see, Anouk? Demure!" Amabel snapped her compact shut, just as the tiny bell on the door tinkled. Monsieur Giscard frowned at her asperity. "_Sacre diables_, you will never get him like that!"

"Who says she needs to get anyone?" Bernadette growled. Her principles had reasserted themselves.

"But everyone needs some bit of effort to secure one's true love." Ninette interrupted the feminist, her wide blue eyes glowing. "It is only right!" She spoke with the fervour of a religious martyr.

Mademoiselle Aimee's eyes dampened slightly at the young girl's romantic enthusiasm. She had been a secret hoarder of romantic novels for years. Amabel, on the other hand, repressed a snort. "True love! He only appeared yesterday, Ninette. True lust. Ah, now that I can understand perfectly. But this love…"

"But you knew him before, didn't you Anouk?" Ninette appealed to her friend. Anouk felt the familiar wash of affection for the wide-eyed girl, this time tinged with irritation.

"A bit, perhaps." She agreed. Hastily, catching the gleam of triumph in several pairs of eyes, she rushed on. "But that was a long time ago. We were kids." And, because she was a petty, small-minded person who did not enjoy having her peace and solitude disturbed, she added. "I'd forgotten he'd even existed." She turned around to collect a tray of Cointreau Roses. She raised his voice so that none of her friends could mistake what she said. "Of course, he wasn't all that special to begin with."

"I know you're not talking about me." A smooth, amused voice cut into the conversation.

Anouk glanced up. Instantly, her cheeks went pink with mortification.

Luc Clairmont stood in the centre of her shop, looking like every mother's dream and nightmare combined. His shoes were polished and gleaming underneath clean light brown trousers. A spotless white shirt with a wide floppy collar made him look cool and relaxed despite the humid March day. His blonde hair was brushed neatly and glinted slightly in the noon sunshine flooding through the wide windows. A small smirk curved around his lips. His blue eyes were fixed directly on Anouk to the exclusion of everyone else in the café.

And there was a devil dancing in them, laughing at her discomfort.

"As far as I remember, Anouk Rocher, I was a charming child."

"I…" Anouk stared at him. "You…"

"_Luc_!" Amabel let out a wild squeal. "Luc, you came!"

There was a start of uncertainty in his eyes for a moment. Anouk saw it and relished it. She couldn't resist a small smirk as Amabel threw herself on the blonde haired man, bestowing an effusive kiss to both cheeks. Awkwardly, Luc patted her on the shoulder. "Umm… _Bonjour_ Mademoiselle…?"

"Oh Luc, it is truly wonderful that you came!" Amabel was in full flight. "We have been waiting all morning to meet you!"

Blue eyes sought out Anouk in panic. "Ah."

Monsieur Giscard cleared his throat portentously. Amabel's behaviour found little favour in his eyes but the appearance on the scene of some young whippersnapper dressed up like a Teddy Boy (or something of that ilk) found even less. Behind the pince-nez, his eyes narrowed into little slits. His barrel chest began to puff up like a bullfrog. Mademoiselle Aimee gazed at him adoringly. "_Bonjour_, Monsieur." He rumbled pointedly, rapping his own silver spoon against the mug of chocolate like a drummer ringing up an execution.

Luc, quick to release the clinging Amabel, fixed an innocent smile on his face. Anouk resisted the urge to roll her eyes in disgust at the obvious pretence. "M'sieur." He inclined his head politely. "A pleasure. Madame." He added, bestowing a small smile on Mademoiselle Aimee. The old woman dropped her chocolate and blushed like a child. Images of Rhett Butler flew into Mademoiselle Aimee's romantic mind.

Monsieur Giscard cleared his throat. Clearly he was longing to ask if Luc's intentions towards Anouk were honourable. After all, being a life-long bachelor, this would be the only time that he would ever be able to ask such a question and not appear nosy.

Bernadette, in her own fashion, beat him to it. She eyed Luc up and down. Her gaze lingered, sharp as barbed wire, on the fashionable tailoring and Saville Row cut. Her nostrils flared slightly. "Are you a pimp?"She demanded. The hot chocolate had dispersed sufficient quantities of her hangover to enable her to interrogate.

"Bernadette!"

"You look like a pimp. That," She sniffed loudly and straightened her spotted blue and pink tie. "Or some poor little rich boy from the University of Orléans who thinks just because he's some big shot back home amongst the debutantes and bland bald-pates of Society…"

"Why, Mademoiselle." Luc's eyes had gone hard. He recognised a challenge when he saw one. He let go of Amabel, who slipped out of his arms disconsolately and scowled at Bernadette. "One would say you were speaking from experience."

"Monsieur," Ninette, ever hurrying for peace, slipped in between the combatants. "Tell me, please. Do you work?"

Luc stared at her, momentarily startled. It was after all, a question plucked from nowhere.

The petite girl looked up at him through ridiculously solemn blue eyes, eyes the colour of Swiss lakes. His own widened. They drifted over the delicate-as-frost cheek bones and the luminous white skin. Then back up to those extraordinary blue pools. He stared at her fixedly. Then his eyes creased, smiling at the corners. Instantly, the debonair man about the town was back. Under the shocked gazes of everyone in the café, he captured one of Ninette's hands. With a smile, he pressed her knuckles to his lips.

"All day and night, mademoiselle."He smiled at her. "I slave only for the cause of beauty."

Ninette gaped. Of all the reactions in the realms of possibility, she had not expected this. "Oh."

"Oh!" Bernadette snorted.

"Yours." Luc continued as if she had not spoken. "If you will permit."

"Oh!"Mottled red swept to Ninette's cheeks. "M'sieur…" She fumbled with her cup, the lake-blue eyes dropping to the floor with embarrassment.

Amabel sighed, content to take the audience's role. Bernadette snarled into her cup of hot chocolate. Monsieur Giscard shot several fulminating glares at the young couple and Anouk… Anouk gritted her teeth and resisted the urge to throw a tea cloth at Luc's blonde head.

"Do you always flirt like this Luc, or is this show put on for my benefit?" She attempted something like the languid bored tones of the aristos she had heard strutting around the streets.

"Show, Anouk Rocher?" He looked up from his contemplation of the beet-red Ninette. His blue eyes were sharp. "I did not realise you were taking such pleasure from it."

"Of course." She raked loose strands back from her face in a defiant gesture. "I consider it a great pleasure when some idiot from the Provinces stands in the middle of my café and embarrasses my friends with his attempts at wit."

His mouth tightened. Abruptly, he dropped Ninette's white hands. "Sarcasm, Anouk, is the lowest form of wit."

"And yet, still higher in intelligence than your own."

The rest of the café gradually fell silent as the two combatants faced each other across the narrow expanse of the walnut counter. Those who had been debating Baudelaire and Zola only five minutes ago quietened. The Marxists looked away from their manifestos of social equality. The lone Situationist in the corner stopped puffing on her cigarette.

Anouk didn't care. She felt reckless, itchy. It was like a thousand ants had erupted under her skin sending bubbles of energy trembling to every muscles and limb in her body. Normally aloof amused brown eyes flashed a challenge. She tapped her bare feet on the wooden floor. Her shoes had been abandoned underneath the counter earlier on. She was unaware of it, but a small smile curved one corner of her mouth.

"Have you nothing to say, Luc Clairmont?" Her head tilted to one side.

"Nothing?" He was annoyed now. Her frosty reception and her constant mockery had wounded his pride. He was not used to being disliked, in any of the circles he visited. "I have plenty, Anouk. Just nothing suitable for mixed company."

"You think I am afraid of a few insults?"

"I think you've never truly been insulted before or you would not say that."

"Sticks and stones…" She mocked. Her hair nearly bristled with energy. Strange, she had never felt like this with Maurice. It had always been gentle with him, like a child's prayer or a pastoral painting. Now, she felt as if she was on fire with energy, as if she was the fire, sparking and flying high.

"_Salope_. " He snapped.

There was a gasp from her customers. Even the foul-mouthed spitfire from Limoges was shocked. They stared at the interloper in their world as if he were the devil. Monsieur Giscard contemplated calling him out.

Anouk didn't notice, didn't care. Retaliation was her only goal.

"_Bâtard!"_ She whipped back. The word had entered her vocabulary in Marseilles when her chocolaterie had been close by the docks.

If her café had been shocked at Luc's profanity, they were nearly bowled over by hers. Mademoiselle Aimee covered her mouth with a hartshorn scented handkerchief. Amabel's mouth dropped open until she resembled a red haired fish. In the couch under the poster for the Moulin Rouge, someone choked on their _chocolat chaud_.

Luc discovered he was breathing heavily, as if out of breath. For an instant he was reminded of the races they would run when they had been children. The course had been from the statue of the first Comte, in the centre of the square, to the river bank. They would race, a bunch of them, neck and neck until the last few hundred feet. Then there would be only two competitors left. Himself and Anouk. He remembered her fierceness and how she would always stretch ahead and beat him, just by that little bit… He looked at her. Before, the brown eyes had been sleepy and relaxed. Now, her eyes sparkled with life flashing like a fencer's blade. The loose strands had fallen back over her face and that smile was back, curving her full lips up.

Suddenly, he grinned. She hadn't changed.

"You always had the last word." He commented. His eyes danced with laughter, his annoyance gone.

She eyed him warily. The sudden change disconcerted her. Brown eyes searched his face for any hint of deception. She saw none. Her shoulders relaxed down. A small smile replaced the reckless gleam. Suddenly, she knew what to do.

Anouk reached down under her counter. On the bottom shelf, below the glass cabinet was a small locked case. The sliver brushed key dangled in the lock. Clicking it open, she drew out her own plate. The earthy red pottery was warm in her hands, despite being locked up for several days. The inscribed symbols intermingled with each other until all one could see was some giant mass of heathen signs. She had found it in her town by the Spanish border. The instant she saw it, she knew and she had bought it that very day.

She set it on the counter reverently. The fingers of her right hand made it spin. Looking up into Luc's eyes, she knew he recognised the ritual as something more than what it was. She smiled again and tucked a strand of brown hair behind her ear.

"What do you see?"

Amabel frowned at the unexpected turn of events. "Anouk…" She began.

"Ssssh!" Ninette, suddenly perceptive for once in her life, batted her hands at the red head. "Quiet, Amabel!"

Luc looked down into the spinning plate. He frowned for a moment. Then the frown lightened. He glanced up at Anouk, then across at the fascinated Ninette. "A white feather." He said softly.

Anouk's gaze flickered across to Ninette's rapt face. No one could have mistaken the warmth in Luc's voice or the intimate smile he shot in Ninette's direction. She felt something small lurch in her stomach. She ignored it.

"Chocolate snaps then." She retorted. "Welcome to La Chocolaterie Maya, Luc Clairmont."

Blue eyes smiled at her. He leaned back comfortably against the counter, his teeth glinting in another of his rakish grins. "It's good to be back, Anouk Rocher."


End file.
